


trivialized bisexuals: aka spitefics

by Racethewind_10



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 18:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Racethewind_10/pseuds/Racethewind_10
Summary: collection of fic prompts from tumblr. see each chapter for summary. no one asked you greg.





	1. with her went my future

**Author's Note:**

> baccanworld said “Season 5 didn't happen the way it did (*shivers*) and the cancer arc was given proper attention. Helena's been seeing a Warehouse-affiliated therapist for her issues.” 
> 
> this is angsty af. you're going to have to squint pretty hard to find the tiny shred of hope. mentions of cancer treatments but nothing graphic.

Helena watches the raindrops fall against the window. Watches individual droplets impact, bleeding downward. Dark eyes follow the patterns made as the rain slides across the glass, caught in the grip of gravity and the wind. The seemingly random patterns dictated by the air currents, by microscopic imperfections in the glass, by -

“Helena?” a gentle voice pulls her away from the window. She tries not to resent it. She chose to be here, after all. No sense in being irritated when she’s paying for this.

But logic rarely held sway over Helena’s heart and now is no exception. Her gaze drifts back to the window - to the rain and the smear of a view beyond the wet glass. Steel grey sky, colorless rain, the shine of lights on wet pavement. The whole world sketched clumsily by an artist with a limited color palette. And still Helena prefers it. Prefers it to sterile white and hard edges. To still, cold air and the smell of disinfectant and desperation. To colorless cheeks and a smile that struggles to reach green eyes. Myka would smile at her description she thinks, or at least she would smile at the exasperation that inevitably leaks into Helena's voice. Or maybe she would frown. “Helena, that’s not fair,” the gentle chiding in her mind seems more vivid, more real than the leather couch she sits on.

“How is Myka doing this week?” Abigail asks. Gentle. Patient. (More patient than Helena deserves). 

“She’s responding well to treatment.” Helena almost laughs at the easy way her mouth shapes those words. How rote and meaningless. It’s true of course, the doctors seem very optimistic regarding Myka’s long term chances. But “well” is a misleading word. “Well” is a comforting lie to tell people who don't know better. “Well” means Myka is exhausted. Sick. That she can barely hold down solid food. That some days, she looks at Helena with something like rage burning in her eyes for having to endure this.

"That's good to hear." 

Helena bites back a retort Abigail doesn't deserve to have flung at her and turns back to the window. 

“ _Chin up, H.G_.” Woolly. If he were still alive. If Helena hadn’t killed him. “ _That’s not fair, Helena. Your actions had consequences but Mr. Wollcott chose his own path_.” Abigail's voice in response. Around and around in her head. Thoughts and memories and ideas as ephemeral and hard to hold on to as the rain sliding across the window outside and some days Helena misses her rage - misguided though it was - it was so very clear. There was an enemy to be slayed and action to be taken. She has no such direction anymore.

A soft beep singles the end of her hour. Helena drags her hand through her hair. She knows better than to waste these sessions. If she had it in her to step back and apply her intellect rationally, she would see the slow, inexorable march of progress toward something - toward someone - less angry. Less dangerous. But some days she holds Myka’s hand and hates how close the bones are beneath the skin and feels that familiar rage stir in her breast once more. Still, she continues. “If Myka can deal with chemo you can meet with Abigail,” Pete told her one day when they were all stretched too thin. He apologized later. It was one of the few times she’s ever hugged him.

Because he was right. Because she owes Myka and perhaps, maybe, she owes it to herself to see this journey through.

But in her nightmares Helena still dreams of a gravestone with Myka’s name on it, and flames that consume the world.

 

 


	2. found my own true love (on a blue sunday)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crimsoncat21 said “fluff, blue” helena has a cold. myka stays. the fluffiest of fluffs.

When your place of employment boasts work-related accidents such as, “trapped in a painting for 50 years” “smothered by purple goo” “possessed by a serial killer who was trapped in a mirror” and “accidentally breaking into song and dance and being unable to stop” coming down with the common flue is somewhat insulting. It’s especially embarrassing if you’re 147 years old, and neglected to get your flue shot this year because there were More Important Things to do. 

Helena pulls the deep blue comforter tighter around her shoulders, a pitiful sound escaping the back of her throat. She’s never going to live this down. Maybe she can just stay in bed until everyone leaves…

No such luck. The door to the room opens only a few moments later, revealing Myka, ends of her hair still damp from a shower. She’s wearing a worn sweatshirt and those jeans Helena loves so much, worn thing with years of use and snug around those long, lean legs that are the real reason Helena loves the jeans. She means to tell Myka to go downstairs, she’ll be out of bed in a moment, but what emerges instead of words are wracking coughs and when its over, Helena groans against the pillow. 

“Leena said your aura looked like hell,” Myka offers gently. The bed dips under her weight as she sits near Helena's waist, and then there are fingers in Helena’s hair, gently massaging her scalp. She tries to make a happy noise but it comes out as a rather pathetic whine. Her consternation must show on her face because Myka bites her lip in that way Helena knows is how she hides a smile.

“I’m going to go get you some tea and some cold medicine. Artie gave us all the day off. I’ve got paperwork to catch up while you rest up."  Helena should demur.  There's no reason to get them both sick and she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself.  But Myka merely raises one eyebrow and Helena finds herself smiling, albeit wearily.  There's little use arguing with Myka when she sets her mind to something and so Helena nods, rubbing at her suddenly itchy eyes.  Before Myka can walk out the door though, Helena reaches out, catching her wrist in a gentle grip. 

"Thank you," she says softly.  Thank you for caring. Thank you for staying. Thank you for loving me. Myka squeezes her hand and stoops to press a kiss to Helena's temple. 

"I love you too," she says. Even though Helena never said the words. It warms her in a way no blanket could. 

An hour later and she’s back asleep, breathing easier, her arm resting on Myka’s leg where she sits beside Helena, propped up on pillows and reading a report. Several hours after that, Claudia sneaks in and covers Myka with a blanket, unnoticed by the two women sleeping wrapped up in each other.

 


End file.
